


Summer Communion

by StripySock



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Priest Kink, Religion Kink, Summer, smpc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 08:36:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3243218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer is sticky hot and sweaty, but it's cool inside the church - until Jared meets (Father) Jensen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Communion

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to MissM for the beta. Written for smpc

 

The summer stretches lazily out in front of Jared, as endless and hot as he could want. This is the wasteland time between the end of college and when his job starts, and everyone he knows has scattered to the winds in search of jobs, homes, travel, freedom. Jared alone remains static, a constant point in a spinning universe, to himself at least. Each day drags liquid into the next, low constant drone of summer noise, the static sharpness of a radio, cool-toned singer belting out the hit that plays all the time, from the windows of open cars, the roof of the mall, a tracking accompaniment of sorts, echoed from speaker to speaker. Jared lives from day-to-day with the careless ease of the temporarily dispossessed.

He walks barefoot through the town, shoes slung over his back, heat of the pavement under his toes, side-stepping abandoned, reforming patches of gum like he's pretending some fire walk, some toughening of his soles for a test ahead. It's a small enough place that he can do that, not like the vast alien city he went to school in, a swallowing up metropolis of ideas, hungry enough to eat him whole. Here, there lurks the remains of a small town, faded barber card in a grey shop front, and even more the recreation of a past it never had - soda fountain in the square, white and pink and candy striped, floral and pristine as though plucked from a movie set, comfortably obscene in its shining glory, filled with people he's never met.

He puts his shoes on before he goes in the church, before marble sheltered from the sun can chill him, carrying his own heat with him, bare toes pushed in worn canvas. The darkness inside strikes his eyes as much as the sun ever could, bright dancing specks in his vision now, blurred and softened shapes of the things around him. When it clears, he sees him.

If the soda fountain was dropped in from a film set, then maybe this guy hitched a ride. He's only pretending to be a man of God surely, the collar looks ill-fitting, constricting around the neck and there's something too right about the vestments. There's a touch of the charlatan in that small smile that sticks around on that too red mouth. Or maybe there's no such thing and sun-blindness is striking Jared still, maybe there's no priest with a touch of Brando hovering near him, looking worried now.

"Sit down," the priest instructs, and the hand he places on his forehead now with unyielding pressure, forcing Jared down onto a pew, is cold or maybe Jared's hot, thrumming with unbroken vigor under his skin, the pound-pound of a headache crescendo starting to build. His errand springs dimly to mind; he gropes in his pocket for the letter his mother had asked him to drop off, and the priest takes away his touch, cool brand of it aching on Jared's forehead like he's been marked with Wednesday Ash, ground in deep. Struggles to make his tongue work, the way it should, but it doesn't seem to be needed. The man scans the letter and smiles. "If she's your mother," he says, "I'm guessing you're Jared. You grew up tall."

Jared nods and looks up, catches the familiar tilt of nose and mouth now, traces familiar lines in his head. Jensen Ackles. Four years ahead of Jared and it might as well have been four decades. Golden path trod through school and then he disappeared. Jared remembers him, remembers the hopeless formless adolescent yearning that he's just far away enough from to be embarrassed of, but not so far away that it doesn't send a tingle down his spine, a jolt pleasant enough to shock him. He remembers him all right. "Jensen," he says. He doesn’t think the way he says it, embodies _I remember you kissing me before you left_. Jensen had been so drunk, Jeff had thrown a party, a going away party for him, and Jensen had curled his arm around Jared and kissed him, one brief second that’d melted Jared, before Jensen pushed himself away, skin pale under perennial freckles.

There's a wry little smile on Jensen's face. "Father Jensen, actually." It sounds as ridiculous as he looks, straight and tall and wearing dress-up, too beautiful to be a truth. "I'll get you some water. The sun is hotter than ever today, we're having something of a heat wave. Walking the width of town with nothing on your head did the trick, I suspect." He sounds like Father Tom, the parish priest, mild, meaningless babble, but he's back in moments with the water and Jared washes the metal-sharp taste out of his mouth and down his throat, now he shivers both from the cold and the shocking contrast to the heat. He feels like he's going to crawl out of his skin, water sitting heavy in his stomach, and Jensen in front of him, close enough to touch but still so far away. He wonders what Jensen would do if Jared kissed him.

He's missed most of what Jensen's said after the correction, sways his way out after a while, refusing any help. Outside it's still brightly, shockingly sunny and the heat's a killer indeed, no taking off his shoes now.The ground seems to mutate and wobble as he stares at it, faint shimmer betraying it. He's five steps away when Jensen's there again, battered floppy hat in his hand. "We wear it for the gardening," he explains. "You'll look ridiculous but that's still probably a better option." Outside in the sunlight, he shouldn't exist, but he does, unfairly full of color.

"Thanks," he says and jams the hat on. Jensen's right, it's better than nothing. As he walks, he thinks he can feel the sharpness of eyes on his back but when he looks, the steps are deserted.

He thinks he sees Jensen everywhere after that. Maybe it was a touch of sun, he thinks, some stupid sensation that he can't let go. But when he meets up with old friends, the ones who stayed in town and never left, it's like Jensen's there. He's there at the sad little municipal pool that Jared goes to swim laps in, incongruous in his black carrion rags, perched on one of the white plastic chairs at the side. Jared double blinks and he's gone. Outside when he walks down a road, Jensen walks a half step away. When Jared does his shopping, Jensen slides between the meat and dairy aisles, basket in his own hand. Jared thinks he might be losing his mind because the daydreams are getting out of hand.

Church on Sunday, his mother quietly surprised but unquestioning and Jared doesn't hear a word. Just watches Jensen speak, that mouth forming words. Mumbles out rote responses that he's always known, stumbles over the mass change, voice loud for a second in the silence, wonders if Jensen hears or notices. Afterwards he lags, watches everyone leave before he trails out to shake Jensen's hand and give him back his hat. Jensen smiles at him, but there's a tinge of trouble in his face, and Jared holds on a little longer than necessary, kick in his gut of uncertainty drowned by a roar of hope - for what, he doesn't even know. Tries not to think of Jensen on his knees, sucking Jared's cock, dust on the knees like a dirty reminder to keep with him, as though Jensen could read his mind.

 

He thinks about it at home, safe in bed, wrapped in the last length of the security cocoon of home and family. He’s picked up the habit - he doesn’t know where, probably shitty TV shows run at three am - of considering his actions. Somewhere in his bed, Jensen’s between his thighs now, invading Jared’s head, working his fingers deep in ways that don’t belong where they are, but Jared aches for it anyway, pushes into the fierce burn, neither sacrosanct nor unholy, strips his cock under the covers, teenager again, hand jammed in his mouth - salt taste on his tongue.

There’s something here of corruption, a little more of need. While he fucks himself, sweet stretch of three fingers, he thinks of Jensen. Thinks of fucking him on the floor of the church, Jensen’s body a barrier between Jared and the chill, his thighs tight around Jared, and the hot closeness of his body as he draws Jared down and in, deep as he’ll go, and Jared comes like that before he can imagine anything more.

Jensen’s busy most of the time and Jared remembers how as a kid he’d always assumed priests didn’t have any friends, that perhaps when they were done for the day, they climbed inside a box and tucked themselves up until morning came. He sees Jensen in odd moments, drawn in, and Jensen never seems to mind, makes space for him. Jared wonders if Jensen thinks Jared has a sin on his conscience that he’s working up to confess, and in a way he does, if the way he wants to touch Jensen is a sin. But he doesn’t say it. Watches the bowed line of Jensen’s head as he works in the garden or the straightness of his neck as he says mass, and waits. There’s dirt on his knees, on his hands, but it’s not the right kind.

When he dreams about it, it’s in the church. He blows Jensen in the confessional, wedged between his knees and the wooden door, Jensen’s fingers spasmodic in his hair. Jensen goes down on him in the vestry and Jared forces his head down that little bit more to feel him choke, wonders if Jensen would blaspheme if Jared did it just right, would come back up mouthing _God_ , and wonders what it says about him that he wants it.

The kiss had been a fluke, he knew that. Jensen had been drunk and probably doubting everything. A little of him wonders that if he’d kissed back, if he hadn’t been what he was, a fifteen year old being kissed by his crush, then Jensen might not have gone after all. The question doesn’t obsess him exactly, but he wonders.

It feels like the summer is being eaten by this, looming larger and larger in his field of view, world narrowed back down to a dark interior and the burning sun, cautious steps in a dance he doesn't even know if Jensen is mirroring. There's only one end he wants but he doesn't contemplate it, doesn't consider the crumbling of Jensen's will - he's not so sure he'd want it in the end. Jared's mother says nothing about his sudden uptick in church going when he hasn't been since he was thirteen and made his choice not to go again. Jared doesn't tell her that it isn't a God he doesn't believe in that draws him back, but the way Jensen believes, even as he looks at Jared too long, touches his arm with familiar fingers that stay on the skin just a half-beat more than they should. Doesn't tell her that extending his fingers for the communion wafer and the brief brush of their hands is dangerously, frighteningly absorbing, that he burns where they touch for the rest of the day.

Jensen makes the move in the end and Jared will remember it to the end of his days, being at the end of the communion line, and, like a question, Jensen offering communion to him, raising it to his mouth.

Jared lets his hands fall limply by his side, feels the hard crunch of the wafer, the brush of Jensen's fingers against his lips, the brief second exhilarating as he lets Jensen press on his lip, the movement hidden from the congregation and he wants to nip at it, but just lets his jaw loosen a very little, the move instinctive and instant and Jensen's face is awed in a way Jared's never seen. He lets the wafer soften in his mouth before he swallows, watches Jensen for the rest of the time, and thinks _this is going to happen_. It doesn't occur to him to doubt that, as though in touching Jared first, Jensen's already sinned the most he can, carved in stone what this is and will be.

It should be slower, it should be softer. It should be everything that Jared's been dreaming of for days but under his hands when they finally meet, Jensen's eighteen again, underdeveloped, caught in a chrysalis of becoming, halted when he stepped out of life until he stepped back in again and met Jared. His mouth is soft and almost literally intoxicating - he tastes of the port and water he finishes from duty, sharp ridge of his teeth clashing with Jared's, soft flesh of his lip caught between them but he doesn't stop, the press of his hands as awed as the look on his face. He smells of books and mustiness, the damp of the vestry soaking into his clothes, even in the heat of the summer. He's not Jared's and he shouldn't be, he doesn't belong with him or near him, but he ruts against Jared, breath thick and heavy, panting into Jared's mouth, hips a restless seeking force, jerky and uncertain, though there's nothing unsure about the way he palms Jared, hard in his pants and desperate for touch.

Jared embarrasses himself with the noise he makes, the sudden jerk that Jensen makes at it as though he realizes, in that moment, that they could be _caught_. The fear of it is ice cold in his veins but he can’t stop, wants it all, wants to get down on his knees in mock piety and suck Jensen off as though it’s a prayer, hear him stifle himself with his hand. He wonders if Jensen thought about this in the seminary with the other embryo priests, if in silent rows, they dreamed damned dreams

The vestry is lockable, safe for the moment, church empty and still - Jared had waited long enough that even the flower ladies had left, and Father Tom is ill. So he takes a chance and sinks down, leans his head against Jensen’s thigh in mock penitence. _Did you do this before you left,_  he wonders and thinks the answer might be no from the way there’s no control in Jensen’s body, quick furtive movements, aborted every time as though he wants but doesn’t know what. It’s headier than tequila and he can’t wait any longer, presses his face against the bulge in Jensen’s pants before he gets them down. Jensen’s thick, thicker than Jared had expected, and it seems wrong somehow that he hides behind cheap black polyester like that, when he should let Jared suck him like this, take him deep enough to stretch his mouth and paint his chin with spit as he chokes down every inch of it. Jensen is fucking his face now, not that he thinks Jensen would call it that, steady remorseless little movements as though he's helpless to stop, and Jared doesn't stop him, opens his mouth wider and holds his breath, sucks at what he can each time he has enough space, lets the movement of his throat and suppressed gag reflex do the rest.

His jaw is stretched to the point of burning and he can feel involuntary tears at the corner of his eye, wonders what Jensen sees when he looks down - Jared helpless and screwed open on the length of Jensen's dick, if the kick of it is as sharp in his gut as doing this is for Jared. He tilts his head back just a little more. There's precome slicking his tongue now as Jensen drives in, and Jensen's fingers are in his hair, trembling as he tightens them. It's too tight, too hard, the prickle of Jared's scalp uncomfortable but his own dick is still hard in his pants and he spares a hand to rub along the bulge. Wants Jensen doing what he's doing right now, twin needs of sucking and being sucked, closes his eyes and feels a tear escape and Jensen thumb it away, some urge to comfort in him as though that tear was real.

The fingers in his hair tighten a little and Jared takes it as the warning it probably is. Pulls back so he get most of Jensen's come in his mouth, dirtier probably than he has any right to be, but needing the resolution, the knowledge of what he's done. He doesn't expect Jensen to pull him up, orgasm weakened fingers tugging at his shoulder, then kiss him, heedless of it, mouth surer now as he sucks the taste of himself off Jared's tongue and winces at it, though he doesn't pull away. There's something more obscene about the soft wetness of his dick now than Jared sucking it, and Jensen seems to feel it as well from the way he covers himself up once more.

"Let me do that for you," he says, and they're almost the first words they've spoken since this began.

Jared laughs, sound swallowed up in the dry air. “Don’t you ever get tired of giving?” he says, his voice a dull rasp now, mostly for the joy of watching Jensen scramble for an answer.

“Fair exchange is no robbery,” Jensen replies. He’s sloppy still, laid out against the wall, eyes unnaturally bright in the semi-gloom, and there’s a bitter curve to his mouth that Jared understands but doesn’t want to see.

“Well then, what do you want to give?” Jared’s pushing, just a little, because there’s an oppressiveness now in this room now that he’s off his knees and close enough to see Jensen’s eyes again, and he wants to kick at it. There’s something squirming deep inside him, angry now in a way he hadn’t expected, as though even this close he’s being rejected and it stings an impossible amount. He wants to hear Jensen say it, wants Jensen to ask him for it, for all the unlikely things that Jared’s imagined in the privacy of his head, involving altars, sacristies, the damn presbytery cloakroom for all he cares.

Jensen doesn’t bother answering him, kisses him again until they’re both breathless as though the air in the room is somehow less wholesome now, each gulp less satisfying, and Jared’s mouth is tenderer than he expected, stretched and battered from Jensen’s accidental roughness, the press of it more pain than pleasure but equally addictive. It’s not just Jensen falling, tumbling down faster.

Then Jensen’s fingers are in his pants and Jared covers him against the wall, ignores the musty scent of his clothes and breathes in the clean scent of his hair, the subtle sweat in the crease of his jaw, as Jensen jerks him off, awkwardly crushed between them, and talks into Jared’s hair, half-broken wordless fragments of how much he wants him. How he’s thought about Jared fucking him, taking him apart, and he might not know much else, but he can jack Jared off perfectly as though he’s had plenty of practice in that at least, and just the thought of that makes Jared’s balls tighten and the spark of feeling in his spine surge outwards, the thought of Jensen touching himself on long nights just from the consideration of Jared. He thrusts a little, slides in Jensen’s grasp, and Jensen increases his stroke, spreads Jared’s precome over the head of his dick with his thumb, never letting go, other hand on his shoulder, holding him close.

His thigh is in between Jared’s, solid weight of it supporting Jared a little, and he touches him like he’s precious, like he’s a relic that needs careful handling, urges him on and forward into the too-warm closeness of Jensen’s body. “I want to tie you down,” Jensen whispers, voice low and soft. “I want to do things to you I don’t even have names for, and I hate that you make me want to.”

Jared comes on that last, thinks it might be the most fucked up thing about the entire encounter even as he fucks Jensen’s hand, comes across him, white splash against the black material. Shivers and shakes against him again like he’s got another touch of the sun, sweating hot, and Jensen strokes down his back, his touch like hell-fire through the t-shirt.

 

Summer stretches long before Jared.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback always appreciated.


End file.
